


It Happened During the SuperBowl

by alyjude_sideburns



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Moonridge, Pre-Slash, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:48:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyjude_sideburns/pseuds/alyjude_sideburns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair comes to some conclusions as he and Jim host a Superbowl party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Happened During the SuperBowl

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Moonridge charity auction.

 

 

 

  
I'm not going to say I'm straight because number one, that's a label and I'm categorically opposed to them. Number two, such a label would limit me to only half the world's population and that's just not fair. On the other hand, I've really only tackled the opposite half of the world's population where sexual encounters are concerned. But still--why limit yourself in your mind or on paper, you know? So, again, I'm not saying I'm straight, but I do have a sexual history that's been pretty much restricted to women.

And I bring this up - why? Well, at the moment, I'm sitting at the dining room table writing an article for American Police while my roommate watches the Super Bowl with six of our friends. I'm not really into football--I think it's a barbaric sport, but I _am_ into the male bonding and junk food ritual that the Super Bowl affords. And we, Jim and I, are the kings of junk food on this day, February 3, 2002. I glance over my shoulder at our current 'spread' and marvel at the amount of food we managed to put together this year.

We have ribs, chicken (both buffalo and teriyaki), bagel dogs, chili and three kinds of cold dips. We have BBQ pulled-pork sandwiches and two kinds of hot dips. We have beer. We have chips. We have popcorn. In fact, several kernels just landed on my laptop.

Gee, isn't male bonding fun? I flip Henri Brown the bird but he just stuffs a chicken wing in his mouth and grins around it.

It's the second quarter and Jim is pretty happy. The score is currently Rams-3, Patriots-7 and one of his squares in the illegal football pool is, you guessed it: 3/7. I tear my eyes from my computer screen and focus on him.

God, he's is _so_ the typical male in moments like these.

Perched on the edge of the couch, beer in hand, he's got this concentrated smile on his face as he watches the current play. He's leaning forward, every muscle tense, as if this were the most important moment in his life. Warner throws and--it's a first down! Jim gives a little guffaw before tossing a pretzel at Simon in celebration of his (not Warner's, mind you, but _his_ ) victory over the Patriots.

The Rams set up for the next play and now I'm watching too, my gaze ranging between the television and Jim. Players scramble, bulging muscles ripple and tight asses flash - and suddenly I'm thinking: _"Jim would look great scrambling around on the field, wearing those tight pants…."_

Now you know why I brought up the whole straight thing, right? Because I'm sitting here at the table and fantasizing about Jim's muscles rippling as he runs…and I can see his crotch…and then he pivots to avoid being tackled and it's his nicely outlined ass…and  
I'm getting hot.

_Very_ hot.

This is new for me.

Very new.

Major new.

Jim is my best friend and while I've always known how good-looking he was, well, it was a fact that you acknowledge the way you note that it might rain.

I should probably mention at this point that I love the guy, but until now, it was in a totally chest thumping, bring-it-on-brother kind of way. Now it's in a, _"Your ass is mine,"_ kind of way.

Which leaves me thinking--major heartache ahead.

Me, a guy - loving Jim Ellison, also a guy, can not lead to anything good.

I'm wondering if I still like women.

The next few minutes of the game find me glued to the set, watching muscles and ass.

Okay, where are the fucking cheerleaders? I need to see breasts. Large, round, perky, and probably artificial, breasts.

Aw, God. No fair. No breasts. Loads of pecs though.

When this game is over--I need to have a talk with Jim.

Oh, yeah.

***

This is good. Jim won a quarter. He's euphoric. The place is a mess, but Jim's in the 'Hundred Dollar Super Bowl Pool Never-Never Land'. I start to clean up and find myself amazed that more food ended up on the floor than in stomachs or original bowls and platters. I'm literally astounded to find two whole chicken wings on the floor by the couch.

Jim is still sitting on the other couch, the paper showing the pool names and their squares in his hand. He's chortling. No other member of Major Crime won anything.

"Hey, Chief, who's someone named Martha?"

I stop and ponder that deep question. "Um, isn't that Serena's assistant?"

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking you."

"Yeah, it's Serena's assistant. She's short, about fifty, nice smile and pretty quiet."

"Well, she's now two hundred and fifty dollars richer."

"Cool."

I pluck the paper from his hand and dump it in the trash bag I'm carrying.

"Hey! I planned on keeping that, Sandburg. I've never won the pool before!"

"Aw, poor baby. Want I should press it lovingly into your souvenir album?"

"Dip-shit."

"You going to help or drool over the hundred bucks you don't have yet?"

Jim answered me by getting up. He grabbed the bag out of my hand and started dumping cans and bottles into it.

"Jim, you know better than that."

With a scowl that didn't fool me a bit, he carefully removed the cans and bottles which I then carried over to the recycle container under the sink.

"We have enough food left over to do this tomorrow, Sandburg."

"Just means we'll enjoy a good lunch tomorrow, thus making the rest of the gang very jealous."

"Good idea."

Jim immediately started packing everything up into his merry band of storage containers. Ah, my little neat freak.

Then it hits me.

"Hey, half of those are my Tupperware containers!"

Jim looks over his shoulder at me and frowns. "Yours, Chief?"

"Yeah, you know. Red for you, blue for me."

"I think that was blue for you and red for me."

I stare at him. He smiles. I smile back. "You jerk."

"No doubt. And we haven't had separate Tupperware in years, Sandburg. Pay attention, why don't you?"

I tilt my head at him, then close one eye. He's just standing there, grinning.

"So we don't have separate Tupperware anymore?"

"Nope."

"Then why do we still have…separate bedrooms?"

"Hell if I know."

I was wrong. No heartache ahead. Jim and I are finally in the same book, on the same page and, wonder of wonders, at the same time.

This is so cool.

"Well," I say thoughtfully, "after we clean up, why don't we move my stuff?"

"Why wait that long?"

"Good point."

We move as one to my bedroom but, once inside, we both stop dead. Jim scratches his head and says, "Where do we start?"

I smile. "With my underwear?"

As he moves to my chest of drawers, his own grin in place, I find myself thinking that he really would look good in a pair of tight--white--football pants.

End


End file.
